


There's been a murder...

by prompt_fills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/pseuds/prompt_fills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets back home, there is a dead body in their  living room and the police waste their time suspecting John.<br/>Pre-Slash, is you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's been a murder...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/), PP XXXII, [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124746735#t124746735):
> 
>  
> 
>   
> _There's been a murder and even Sherlock has to admit that all the evidence points toward John. The police are very apologetic about having to follow every lead, and John gamely goes along with all the questioning... right up until they actually try to arrest him. Cue BAMF!John and Mama Bear!Sherlock._  
> 

 

…

John sits in his favourite armchair and watches as the blood seeps into the carpet. He is still in shock. Sherlock ignores him.

“Yes, a body!” Sherlock says into his phone. “Dead! Of course it’s dead. Do you think I’d be calling you if it was still alive?!” He’s quickly losing his patience because it’s been a long day and he had to deal with plenty of idiots already and John didn’t react at all when he returned home and–

“Can you give me your address, sir?”

“You should have had my bloody address traced as we were speaking!” He barks at the woman at the other end of the line. She sounds young, mid-twenties, probably tries to get a degree in psychology at UEL, he should really ask Anderson about his wife but not it’s not a good time to get sidetracked. “221B, Baker Street,” he informs the woman who has to be completely dense if she doesn’t already know that. Maybe it really is her full time job and she isn’t as young as her phone-voice might suggest.

Sherlock realises he’s still clutching the phone to his ear and distractedly slips it back to his pocket. “John?” He tries again despite himself but John isn’t reacting even though he should be reacting because they ought to have them trained for this. “John!”

There is still some blood on the knife even though it’s been wiped with a towel from their kitchen. Oh, Sherlock hopes John didn’t use the white one with a blue stripe because he had a nice binary fission going on in there. “We need to cover things up before the police arrives.”

John doesn’t seem to hear him.

With a sigh, Sherlock crouches down next to the stiff male body and wonders if John would let him keep the carpet to run a few experiments on it. “Interesting,” Sherlock mutters, poking the man’s naked forearm. “Hand me a pair of tweezers, John.”

Sherlock holds out his outstretched hand before he remembers. He stands up, walks to the window and waits for the police. He needs to _think_. Luckily, both the body and John are completely silent.

…

  
Sherlock watches John slowly came out of his daze. It takes a while before the drug looses its effect and it’s very interesting to see the phase when John is still somewhat out of it but becomes more and more aware of his surroundings with each passing minute.

“So you say you’ve been drugged and you don’t know anything after that,” the police inspector asks _again_ and Sherlock actually bites down the snarky reply that is on the tip of his tongue. John could be proud.

“Yes,” John answers simply.

“And can you tell us what have you been doing roughly between...”

“Nine and eleven clock this morning,” Sherlock offers easily, sparing once glance at the body that is now being taken care off.

“Right, sorry. It’s just that we always have to go through all the formalities,” the policeman says in an apologetic tone.

Sherlock hears John shift his weight and he knows John will use that tone that he sometimes uses with children. “I’ve been here, reading a book.”

The policeman that interrogates him nods and the one next to him scribbles something down in his notebook. Sherlock doesn’t have to peek over the man’s shoulder to read what’s being written down. He does it anyway, pegging the man as an unreliable messy person who neglected to pay for his bills last month based on how close together he write his letters. And those idiots are actually loosing precious time to question John.

Sherlock doesn’t roll his eyes and he doesn’t open his mouth to inform them all what a waste of time this is and he hopes that John sees the effort Sherlock makes.

 _‘Who is the man?’_ is followed by _‘Did you kill him?’_ and Sherlock has to busy his mind with recalling how many direct flights are possible to make from Heathrow within the next two hours.

 _Why did you kill him?_ has Sherlock listing the capital cities of the USA in alphabetical order under twenty seconds.

 _How many times did you stab him?_ makes Sherlock step between John and the policemen.

“Do you honestly think this man,” he points behind his backs, “would commit such a crime?” A small smile crosses John’s face but Sherlock doesn’t let that distract him and he goes on, his eyes fixed on the older of the two men. “If John wanted someone dead, you’d never learn about it. Most likely, the body would be never found.”

John’s face falls and he hisses: “Not helping, Sherlock.”

Sherlock keeps piercing the police officers with his gaze for another 3,8 seconds precisely before lowering himself onto the sofa.

…

  
“Maybe it was your landlady, we should interrogate her next. It’s Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it?”

Sherlock has a hand firmly clasped around John’s shoulder in what he thinks is a reassuring gesture even before John starts shouting: “Mrs. Hudson?! Have you ever seen that lady?!”

“Um, she’s been at home at the time of the crime, so we’ll have to–” The policeman clears his throat.

“If you’ll manage to cause any distress to Mrs. Hudson by bringing her up to the police station to question her, we’ll then have to place a complaint.”

The stealthy admiring look John gives Sherlock always makes him feel better.

…

“Mr. Holmes, with all respect, you have to admit that Mr. Watson doesn’t have an alibi–”

“He doesn’t need one,” Sherlock mutters but of course no one pays him attention.

“– and we have his blood on the murder weapon. We found the body in your living room. Do I have to go on?”

“I admit that the evidence you’ve listed might lead to the conclusion that Mr. Watson is the one you’re looking for–” Sherlock falls silent because John is about to interrupt him.

“Sherlock!”

…

“Mr. Watson, you’re under arrest.”

“What?”

“We have a preponderance of eviden–”

“Nonsense!”

John steps to the table and searches the mess. The two men stand awkwardly in the centre of the room, not daring to came closer.

“On that plate with Mrs. Hudson’s cookies,” Sherlock points out.

John finds the empty vial and Sherlock looks away because the sight of the punctures makes him want to take notes.

“I assure you we’ll _help you_ find the murderer,” Sherlock says, carefully emphasising that they will be only helping and not in fact doing all the dirty work the way Sherlock knows it will be. He’s been getting better and better at this, he thinks.

“Here,” John announces, holding up the bottle with his own blood in it. “We’ll have the FBE done and you’ll see the remains of the drug they used.”

“I’m suspecting thiopental,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Oh,” John says, pressing two of his fingers to his own wrist like that could help him trace any pooling. “I might have even fallen asleep,” he admits.

“Actually, I think you should fill a report about an assault.”

…

Finally, finally the police leave and they are alone in their flat again.

“Mycroft will have the attack recorded. Bless that CCTV.” Sherlock sighs happily and sprawls himself on the sofa. “Did the man die in Afghanistan?”

“I thought so,” John admits, apparently so long used to Sherlock’s deduction skills not to be surprised. “But I was wrong.”

Sherlock places his hands under his head and closed his eyes. “Brilliant.” John is giving him that little affectionate smile. “John?”

“No, Sherlock, we’re buying a new carpet.”

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Was afraid so.”

…


End file.
